Impossible Emotions
by musicprincess1990
Summary: "It is common knowledge, of course, that a ghost cannot feel. Such was the norm, and the very welcome norm, for I don't know how many years. Then he came along." Well, all right then! Another new story! Please read and review!
1. Preface

It is common knowledge, of course, that a ghost cannot feel. Being a non-corporeal being, the specter is incapable of experiencing the sensation of physical touch. Any attempt will result in a hand, or a foot, or what have you, traveling straight through.

To the living human, the "touch" of a ghost resembles walking through an icy waterfall. It chills one to the bone. I have been told that this is because a ghost is physically made of "the absence of life." Life is warmth, and death is cold. When the two combine, you might expect for the warm to become colder, and the cold to become warmer. However, cold simply wins. I suppose that is because cold is the stronger force. After all, cold is death, and no man can escape death.

All this being said, there is one misconception I would like to dispel. A ghost may not be able to feel, but that does not mean a ghost does not _have feelings_. Emotions are eternal, and reside with us throughout the rest of our existence. Sir Nicholas is perpetually indignant, insulted by his refusal by the members of the Headless Hunt. The Friar is constantly hungry, with only his ghostly tankard of ale to sate him. I never quite know what the Baron is thinking, but he always has a scowl on his face.

As for me, I died in fear, which would explain my shy, scared nature. I wasn't like this in life. In fact, I was quite outspoken in my youth, particularly toward my mother. She was selfish, in my opinion, hiding her treasured diadem from the world. And she always said it would be the death of her. Little did she know that she was correct—well, mostly.

_I_ was the death of her.

It doesn't matter now. Both she and I have been dead for centuries, and only I was cursed to continue roaming this godforsaken earth for eternity. Cursed by my own petty fears.

But I digress. This does prove that ghosts have feelings. But I think the misconception stems from the fact that a ghost's feelings do not change. I have been timid and afraid for more than a thousand years, and it has never abated, never grown, never been replaced by anything else. It will never be replaced.

So I hide. I briefly appear for each welcome feast, and occasionally, I might accidentally run into a student who is more curious than he or she ought to be, particularly those in search of that wretched diadem. But for the greater part, I avoid the Hogwarts population, living and dead alike.

The first student to accept my fear, and continue to search for me despite it, was Luna. She was so very kind. I couldn't help but be afraid, but she repeatedly assured me that she only wanted company, and not the diadem. I believed her, and often conversed with her. She was the first person from whom I did not run (or fly) away.

Harry Potter was a bit more insistent and frantic than Luna. Of course, at the time, the great war was raging around—and _in_—the castle. And his purpose for seeking the diadem was to rid the world of its rot once and for all. Once again, I found myself believing, trusting a mortal, and I revealed its hiding place. And because of Harry Potter, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was also destroyed forever.

After that, I returned to the shadows and the hidden corridors. Few people sought me out, and those that did were only curious about what had happened to the diadem. I would only tell them it was gone, and then quickly fly away, finding another hiding place.

Such was the norm, and the very welcome norm, for I don't know how many years.

Then _he_ came along.

* * *

A/N: This... is going to be interesting. I'm not sure where this story will take me. Stay tuned, and we'll find out together! :)


	2. Intrigued

"Hurry up, James! We don't want to be late!"

I roll my eyes at my little sister's antics. It's her third year now, and you would think that at least some of the excitement for school would have worn off by now. But no, she's as bouncy and starry-eyed as a first-year, or even more so.

"Calm down, Lils," I tell her, "We've still got almost ten minutes."

"So what?" she counters.

"Give it up, Jamie," Al jokes beside me. "I think she'll be like this even in her seventh year."

I groan. "Thank Merlin this is _my_ last year."

Al eyes me closely. "And you're really not going to miss it? At all?"

I shrug one shoulder. "S'pose I'll miss the food, and breaking curfew just to drive Filch mad. But I can go to Hogsmeade any time, and I definitely _won't_ miss being in class."

"Aren't there any _people_ you'll miss?"

Inwardly, I squirm, but I don't show it. Instead, I scoff, shaking my head. "No. The only people I've spent any time with in the last seven years are family, so I'm rather stuck with you lot."

"Thanks for the love," he deadpans.

We walk the rest of the way in silence, other than Mum's frantic cries that we slow down, and Dad telling her to leave us be. Dad and I have always got on better than Mum and me. She's always nagging me about my hair, my clothes, my grades, my pranks, my life. Dad subscribes to the "live and let live" policy. Granted, his idea is that I'll make my own mistakes and learn to be a respectable adult by default. What he doesn't know is that I'm planning to leave the moment that Hogwarts diploma is in my hand.

Nothing personal to the family, it's just... I want to be free. I've been saving up money from my chores at home (which isn't much, I grant you, but still), and any money I've made from bets and side-businesses at school (I have Uncle George to thank for that idea). I've got enough to do some travelling, and I'll work when I need more money. Forget Hogwarts. Forget England. I'm going to see the world.

"James? James!"

"Eh?" I snap out of a trance, turning to Mum. "Oh. Er, sorry."

She just shakes her head and smiles. "Good luck," she says, pulling me in for a hug. I count down in my head. _Three... two... one..._ "And behave yourself."

"When do I do otherwise?"

"_James_—"

"I'll be fine, Mum," I insist, pulling out of the hug. "Honest."

She scowls, but moves on to hug my brother and sister. Dad comes and gives me a one-armed hug, saying simply, "Have fun. Write to your mother."

"I always do," I grin.

We board the train with five minutes to spare, and Lily is bouncing in her seat the entire time. I do my best to ignore her. Later on, we're joined by our cousins Rose and Hugo, and soon, the journey begins. Though I do my best to join in the conversation, but inside, I'm counting every second that passes before we reach the school. This year is going to be different. I know it.

At long last, we arrive at the castle, and after the traditional Sorting ceremony, the usual start-of-term feast begins. The food is delicious, as always, but my mind is elsewhere, still counting down, if only subconsciously.

My attention is caught—and _kept_—by the arrival of the school ghosts. I mutter a quick, friendly greeting to Nearly-Headless Nick, stifle a chuckle at the Fat Friar, more or less ignore the Bloody Baron, and let my eyes rest on the very ghost whose presence I've been waiting for.

_The Grey Lady._

Helena, I correct myself. Helena Ravenclaw. I remembered the day I had asked Dad if he knew more about her, and to my surprise, he actually _did_. She had been the daughter of Rowena Ravenclaw, dying at a young age, though the cause was unknown. Dad mentioned also that she was a big help in beating Voldemort, helped him find some dark object or other. He didn't give any more details, but I got the feeling there was more he wasn't telling me. I couldn't persuade him to give more information, though.

"Why the interest in her?" he'd asked, confused by my persistence.

The reason was that she was so _secretive_. Another memory flashed, this one of the end-of-year feast, after I'd finished my third year. Rose, who had completed her _first_ year, said something, completely off-hand, that had struck me as odd.

"Oh! I'd forgotten about the Grey Lady!" she said. "You know, it's strange. I don't think I've seen her once since the start of the year."

And it was obvious why. She was shy, and didn't like to talk to anybody. The few people she _did_ talk to were almost always in Ravenclaw, and she barely spoke even to them. Most of the time, it seemed like her only conversation came in the form of short answers to questions. And apart from each feast, at the beginning and end of each year, she disappeared. I tried to ask some of the Ravenclaws what they knew, but they either told me to shove off, or didn't know anything.

It was just plain weird. And I was intrigued.

I watch her as she floats solemnly in the corner, doing her best to fade into the background. She would've been successful, if not for me. I try not to be too obvious with my staring, and talk with my cousins and siblings. But all through the feast, I keep one eye on her.

_This year_, I vow, _I will finally figure her out_.

* * *

_(Helena)_

The students are in their dormitories, or roaming the more popular locations within the castle and grounds, as their second day draws to a gradual close. I observe from behind walls and in darkened corners, reveling in the solitude. To say that I enjoy it would be an exaggeration, but I infinitely prefer it.

My thoughts stray toward trivial nothings as I float toward my favorite spot. No one else knows of this place, ensuring compete privacy when I am there. Casting a quick glance about me, I float toward the hidden staircase. Had I a physical body and the ability to touch, I would have pressed the centermost stone in the wall—the only perfect square, with the faintest engraving of a crest on the surface—at which point, a door would appear, leading to a winding staircase. Being incorporeal as I am, I simply pass through the stone and ascend slowly. Atop the stairs lies a second door, hiding a small room in one of the shorter turrets, with one window overlooking the lake and grounds.

Typically, the door is closed, but today it is slightly ajar. _Strange_, I muse, but do not give it any more thought—until I enter the room. For there, beside the window, enjoying its prospect, is a young man. I gasp unintentionally, alerting him of my presence. As much as I might like to ask him how he came upon this place, my desire for solitude overpowers, and I turn to leave.

"Helena, wait!"

I stop in midair, instantly wary and afraid. The last time someone referred to me by my given name... I can't even remember. Who does he think he is? Well, obviously, he thinks he is entitled to whatever he wants. He is James Potter. I may be silent and hidden from the world, but that does not mean I do not observe. I have seen how James Potter interacts with his peers, and from what I have seen, he believes himself above them. He has never been rude, but nor has he seemed to go out of his way to be kind. He is a typical, over-coiffed, over-privileged seventeen-year-old, who believes the world is there for his merriment.

And he also happens to be staring at me.

"How do you know my name?" I finally ask him.

He smiles—a lopsided, arrogant smirk, which is at once both attractive and infuriating. "I didn't know it was such a big secret."

"Few people know it."

"And my dad happens to be one of them." I wait, silently, for a more detailed explanation. He shifts from one foot to the other, noticeably uneasy. "Er, my father? Harry Po—"

"I know who your father is," I cut him off. "But why would he tell you my name?"

"Because I asked him."

I frown. "Why?"

He shrugs one shoulder. "I wanted to know."

"Why?"

Laughing softly, mostly to mask his discomfort, he says, "Because I was curious. Is that really such a crime?"

_Yes_. "That would depend on what you are curious about."

He pauses briefly, and for a moment, I indulge in the vain hope that, perhaps, he will leave the matter alone. Surely he can see my reluctance to discuss it. But of course, he persists, and in a calm voice, his eyes on mine, he reveals, "I'm curious about _you_."

If I weren't cold and dead, I believe I would be blushing just now. "What about me?"

He flashes that smile again. "Everything."

"Why?"

"That's a favorite question of yours, isn't it?" he asks, laughing again.

I wonder if there might be something wrong with this boy's mind. Yet his eyes seem clear and untroubled, and his casual expression and stance suggest sincerity and truthfulness. But _why?_ I cannot understand the motivation for his interest. The only people ever to seek me have in truth been seeking the diadem—except in dear Luna's case, bless her. But she was virtually friendless, and though I do believe she would never have been unkind to me if she did have friends, I cannot fathom why else she would seek my company.

"You have friends," I point out.

He appears confused. "Er... yeah, I do have friends."

"Then why are you so interested in me?"

Something in his face softens, and I glimpse pity in his eyes. The thought rankles; I do not want his pity, nor his attention, however intent he is to bestow either. "Because you _are_ interesting," he replies. "You're fascinating. You obviously have so many secrets."

I back away slightly. "And you'd like to discover them all?"

He shrugs. "If you're willing to tell me, yeah."

"And if I am not?"

He falters briefly, but recovers quickly with another one of those smiles. "Then I'll settle for one. Just one tiny, insignificant little secret that means almost nothing to you."

"Such as?"

"Well, how would I know? It's _your_ secret."

The retort I had planned dies at this response. I struggle to think of a new one, as well as a reason to refuse him. Unfortunately, my mind seems to have fled, and my only reply to this is a muttered, "Fine."

He smiles yet again—why on earth does this boy smile so much?—and thanks me. "Now, if you're all right with it, I'll just meet you here. How does every Sunday at 8:00 sound?"

"I will be here," I tell him. _I'm always here_, I add silently.

"Great," he grins. "See you next Sunday, Helena."

I watch James as he walks away, his broad shoulders squared and his head held high. I have not often held people with such evident confidence in very high esteem. A more typical reaction would be to envy them or resent them. But there is something in James Potter's stance, his irritating smirk, and his wide, brown eyes, that is surprisingly inviting. There is sincerity, and a sense of chivalry, I would imagine, despite his carefree and childlike nature. Or, perhaps, this side of him is one he has shown only to myself. Perhaps it is a lie, designed to rip my secrets from me.

At this thought, I consider finding him and refusing his offer, but again, something stops me. I reason with myself that it cannot do any real harm. Can it? I am already dead, after all. And, should I choose to ultimately keep my secrets hidden—which I _will_ choose—what can he do to me?

_Calm yourself_, I chastise internally. _No harm can come to you because of this_.

Resolutely, I conceal myself, and begin a mental countdown until Sunday.

* * *

A/N: I'm not entirely pleased with the first half of this chapter. James kind of seems like a D-bag, and I was trying so hard not to make him one. I might have to do some revision and fine-tune his character until I'm happy. But the second half, in Helena's POV, is AWESOME! Do you agree? Let me know, please!


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